


The Pickpocket

by L_Morgan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Morgan/pseuds/L_Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft ponders his first trip home in eight years, which leads to distracting thoughts regarding his unsatisfactory relationship with his 18-year old brother. Attention elsewhere, Mycroft loses his balance, his wallet, and - potentially - his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pickpocket

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a small "snapshot" story that got into my head and took up residence. I actually think it may be a preface of some sorts, but for now it can be read as a stand alone.

_December 1996_

The room swam with the warm crush of bodies and jubilant conversation.

With a pint in one hand and an uncharacteristic smile on his typically cheerless face, Mycroft found himself crushed up against the bar packed tightly between Clive Heatherton, his suite mate from his first year at Oxford, and Elizabeth Worther, the woman who had been his “date” - if not his actual girlfriend - for the last three years.

Soon, Mycroft would be leaving the hustle and bustle of London, returning, for the first time in nearly 8 years, to his family’s country home. He wasn’t estranged from his family - quite the contrary - as he spoke with his mother, an elegant old dame he still referred to as “Mummy,” several times a week. Less close with his father, Mycroft nonetheless passed frequent messages to the man, keeping him abreast of his accomplishments and any bits of intrigue that might interest.

The one sore point in the entire arrangement was his relationship or, rather, lack thereof, with his brother, Sherlock.

Seven years younger than Mycroft, Sherlock had recently turned eighteen. More to the point, however, Mycroft hadn’t seen, nor even spoken to, Sherlock since he was ten.

Despite Mycroft’s best intentions - he had sent Sherlock countless gifts, usually in the forms of books or puzzles for the first few years with never any response - the relationship had fizzled, either due to the difference in their ages or, if Mummy’s assessment was correct (and it almost always was) that Sherlock viewed Mycroft’s extended absence as a betrayal, if not complete and total abandonment.

Indeed, when the first set of Christmas photos after his departure from the family manor had arrived at his rooms, Mycroft was surprised to see no pictures of his little brother. When pressed, Mummy admitted that Sherlock had refused to sit for family photos. ‘If anyone wanted to see him,’ he had reportedly raged, smashing the photographer’s tripod, ‘they could bloody well come _see_ him!’

He apparently hadn’t come out of his room for a week.

With no physical evidence to the contrary, Mycroft continued to hold a picture in his head of Sherlock as  the skinny, wraith-like elf that he’d been as a child, with curly black hair, eyes that were too big for his face, and a pout that could grace the most elaborate of Christmas gifts. Sherlock had been an adorable child, who - well, at least for a time - thought that Mycroft had hung the moon.

Trying to wash away the regret, Mycroft took another drink and shuddered. He hated lager.

Over the years, his mother became more and more closed lipped about Sherlock. He was intelligent; Mycroft had known that even before he’d left. But he was also - again, at least according to Mummy - somewhat difficult. However, whenever Mycroft pressed on any of the more outlandish reports of Sherlock’s behavior that had come his way usually via his many aunts, uncles, and cousins, Mummy always rose to his defense.

_‘Sherlock is different, that’s all....’_

_‘They just don’t understand him....’_

_‘Things have not been easy for poor Sherlock....”_

_‘I’d rather not talk about this over the phone, dear....’_

_‘Perhaps if you were home more, you’d understand.....”_

Then, finally, of her own sister. _‘Well, that’s the last time she’ll be welcome in this house without an apology. I never dream of criticizing either of her two inconsiderate lumps, though God knows it would be more than deserved....’_

He caught his own frown in the mirror over the bar, just as Christine leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“You alright?” Her voice dancing just above the surface of noise, barely distinguishable in the swell of humanity.

“I’m fine, darling,” he responded. “Sorry I’m a bore tonight, just thinking about home.”

“Looking forward to seeing that brother of yours?” Clive asked from his right. “He must be quite the young man these days, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded, a wave of exhaustion moving through him. “You know what, you two?” he asked, forcing himself to be chipper, knowing full well that he’d never escape Christine’s well-intended, and oft appreciated, clucking, if he didn’t. “I think I’m ready to call it a night. You don’t mind if I head out do you?”

He tried to not to notice as Clive sent Christine a not so obvious glance. He had little doubt as to what the two of them would be up to once he left. He also couldn’t help but appreciate how little he cared about being the third wheel, even when he used to be the center of both of their worlds. Somehow it just didn’t hold the pain that he had once feared.

‘Interesting.’

Returning Christine’s kiss, a quick brush to the corner of her smile, he turned to offer Clive his hand.

As he twisted into his coat, he over-balanced, caught by a pair of warm hands that lingered gently at his waist. “Sorry about that, Gov’ner,” a velvet baritone rumbled somewhere beneath his left ear.

Mycroft’s entire body jerked, as surely as if he’d licked a fork and stuck it in an electric socket. By the time he found his feet, all he could see was the flash of a coat, a dash of red, black curls, bright eyes, sculptured cheekbones, lightening quick flash of teeth and a jaunty wave.

It was more of a collection of details, really, than a face....

“He’s a fine one,” Christine said, her eyes tracking the man as he disappeared into the night. “I’ve not seen him around here before. Do you know him?”

“No.” Mycroft reached up to cover his expression; his heart thundering in his chest, his cheeks flushed. ‘Good Lord,’ Mycroft thought, completely disgusted with himself. Breathless over a chance encounter - and not even an encounter - more of a near mishap with a complete stranger. ‘Panting and hard, like an adolescent....’

Mycroft shook his head, reaching for his wallet so that he could pay his tab and get home, where he was going to catch up on some, obviously, long overdue sleep.

Left trouser pocket: _empty_.

Right trouser pocket: _empty_.

A new wave of shame washed over him and he kicked himself for being so willingly distracted by a mishmash of features and a fashionable coat. He checked his own coat pocket, just in case, but he found what he expected to find: _nothing._

“Everything okay, My?” Clive asked, face etched with concern.

Mycroft forced a smile. “It seems like our pretty friend is as good with his hands as he is with his manners.”

“Oh no!” Elizabeth said. “He took your wallet?”

“It would appear so,” Mycroft admitted, feeling even doubly foolish, but glad at least, that the discovery of the man’s true intent had wilted his body’s traitorous, and rather embarrassing, response. “Would you mind?” he asked Clive, waving his hand at his empty glass.

“Of course,” Clive said, clasping his shoulder. “Do you need money for a cab?”

“No, no.” Mycroft said. He moved until he located his umbrella from where he’d left it next to the bar. “I think that the walk will do me good.”

“You will call the police, won’t you?” Clive pressed. “You did get a good look at the bloke, didn’t you?”

This time Mycroft’s smile was unforced, his mind’s eye calling up what have been at least 6 feet of tall, dark, and dangerous. “Yes, yes,” he murmured, thinking of the way their eyes had met across the room and the taste of desire that had all but exploded across his tongue. “I’m afraid that I saw more than enough....”

‘Though, even with all things considered, I certainly wouldn’t object to seeing more.’

 

In the end, Mycroft didn’t call the police. He did, however, call his mother, who seemed decidedly unconcerned and unsympathetic. He wondered if her antipathy had anything to do with Sherlock, but he was beginning to feel like any inquiries in that quarter would be best made in person. Besides, he was going to be home soon and it probably was in his, and Sherlock’s, best interests to keep his preconceptions to a minimum.

If either Clive or Christine had asked why he hadn’t pursued it, why he hadn’t even bothered the local police, he’s sure that he could have produced a reasonable response. But it wouldn’t have been the truth.

For how do you tell your best friend and the girl who everyone thinks you are going to marry that the fantasy material he’d gotten from that one 15 second encounter was worth more than ten times the three fifty pound notes that he’d had tucked in his wallet?

And in terms of the credit cards, the university ID, and the motoring license? Well, none of those were things that couldn’t be easily replaced - unlike the anonymous brush of fingertips against his hips and the deep velvety undertones that, even now, sent shivers up and down his spine.

Shaking his head at his own folly and the endless game of _‘What if?’_ he’d been playing since that night in the pub, Mycroft glanced one more time around the room to make sure he had everything. Assured that everything was in order, he flipped off the light and locked the door behind him. Pushing aside all thoughts of mysterious strangers out of his mind, he took a deep, cleansing breath.

After all, none of that mattered - not in the scheme of things. Nothing else mattered except one simple truth: He was going home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing but the mistakes! Special thanks to my favorite beta, Jadis!


End file.
